


The Dichotomy Paradox

by MartianSquid



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Abusive Parents, Anal Sex, Domestic, Dubious Morality, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Oral Sex, Richard Brook Was Real, Running Away, Shower Sex, Twincest, Twins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-09
Updated: 2015-07-09
Packaged: 2018-04-08 10:10:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4300761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MartianSquid/pseuds/MartianSquid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From time to time, Richard reflects on his life with Jim. It's not perfect, but he's never known anything else.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Dichotomy Paradox

**Author's Note:**

> "That which is in locomotion must arrive at the half-way stage before it arrives at the goal."
> 
> Note: the "Underage" tag is because there are flashbacks to when Richard and Jim were 16. By law, not the age of consent, but they were consciously consenting.

There are days James Moriarty sleeps in. Getting him to go to sleep at all is a hassle, and when he inevitably pushes past his own limits, he’ll pass out. But it is a gift if it lasts more than 6 uninterrupted hours. 

On those days, when Jim is down and out until noon or so, Richard Brook was treated to the very rare sight of his brother without a scowl on his face. Waking up to him, without his hair slicked back, without his suits, Richard can almost recognize him as a reflection. With 99.99% (repeating) of the same DNA, they supposedly share a face. 

However, Jim did so much to distance that negligible gap, he’s infinitely far, while still being within Richard’s grasp. Both laying on their sides, he reaches out, fingers lightly caressing over his brother’s frame, covered only by a thin sheet (Richard prefers to wear pajamas, Jim sleeps naked), almost vulnerable…

And then Richard saw creases begin to form on Jim’s forehead — the distant rumble of a storm coming up on the horizon. Every sense told him its coming, and he can’t help but dread the most certainly foul mood. Didn’t matter if it was “morning” by technical standards, Jim wasn’t a “waking up” sort of person. 

As Jim blinked awake, Richard took that intervening moment to reflect: he doesn’t understand how his life got this way. It wasn’t the worst life, and could be quite joyful at times. But even happy moments were tinged with pity, worry, and fear. 

Born in Dublin, half of a set of twins, he and James grew up together, most of their time spent avoiding their alcoholic father. Sometimes it was fun, he could pretend he and James were playing hide-and-seek, stowing away in cupboards, trees, even under the floorboards. 

They once shared a disposition, sweet, tender, kind. But when they were found (if their father was in a _mood_ ), for whatever reason, it was a little less awful on Richard. 

Maybe it was because he was younger by a few minutes, but their father seemed to baby Richard, while blaming Jim for a lot of his problems (most predominantly, while shouting, that their mom had abandoned them all shortly after his birth). Jim had suffered so much more it crushed the light out of him. Acid thrown over a candle to ensure it’d never burn again. Richard traced over a single scar on Jim’s right arm from a nasty incident with kitchen shears.

In fact, it left such a lasting impression on James that the second he turned eighteen, he swapped his last name to his mother’s maiden name, and preferred going by a nickname. _A final nail in the coffin of any relation to the boy who just took his abuse._ Or so Jim had said. 

Richard stayed who he was.

Some days, he felt like a vampire. One that had absorbed the goodness in Jim, living it out in eternal youth of mind. 

Shutting out memory lane, Richard gave his best smile as Jim’s eyes fixated on him: almost always, his brother was the first thing he saw upon waking; Richard tried to make it the best. Involuntarily (or maybe it’s how he really felt, it was hard to be sure), Jim gave a genuine smirk back, showing off his pointed fangs, hand finding its way to his twin’s waist, “Morning.” 

He lived in London these days, had for almost twenty years now. “Good morning.” Richard returned, voice soft, “Sleep well?”

“No, but waking was nice.” Jim shifted forward, pressing their lips together. A bit of affection, something they both enjoyed, shamefully or not. Richard’s arm curled around Jim’s neck, their bodies winding together seamlessly. 

When he was sixteen, he and James discovered what sex was. Together, of course — back in those days, they did everything together. Not long after, they ran away from home. Richard occasionally wonders if there’s a connection.

Jim broke off the kiss, lightly pushing Richard away as he laid a lingering one on his forehead, “I’ve got work to do.” He murmured, standing on unsteady legs — the “shimmery” feeling Jim gets in his knees is one of the only reminders Richard has that his brother _actually_ still _wants_ him — and lumbering over to the bathroom, “But I’ll be around.” He called over his shoulder, punctuating it with the start of the shower. 

Jim hadn’t closed the door behind him. A silent invitation, but one that could easily be ignored — Jim would never _ask_ for anything directly, because Richard would be forced to say yes. Not that he didn’t _want_ to, but he felt secure that he always had the choice. A choice he kept making. 

The younger twin balled up on the bed, giving his brother a few minutes to wake properly before going to join him.

Richard was an actor. Moderately successful, it’s a job that at least makes him happy. He hadn’t _always_ wanted to be one, but had since he was ten. _Close enough to always,_ as Jim would say.

Close to twenty years ago, James said London would be the best place for opportunities. For both of them. 

He was right, he always was, but at what cost?

Often, Richard tried his best to rehearse lines at the studio. When he can’t, he does so quietly at home, not wanting to disturb Jim at all. Interrupting a “business” call seemed unwise (he’d never done it before, and he never wanted to. His older twin often told him _any_ identifying information he could give away could very be the death of both of them), and he didn’t want to invite his brother’s ire, especially not when he was in a “work” head space.

What exactly Jim _did_ for a living, Richard didn’t investigate too in-depth. He wasn’t stupid — it was all illegal, whatever it was. Strange, thuggish-yet-well-spoken men, covered in blood, would come into their flat, and Richard was instructed never to let _them_ see _him_. 

Richard figured violence, murder, heists, the general schlock he’d see in gangster movies, and perhaps something greater. How Jim entered into it, he wasn’t sure, but knew his brother could never hurt a living thing. Not after what they’d been through. But by proxy? Maybe. His brother had an endless powder keg of anger and despair.

But they always had money in excess, so Richard didn’t complain. Just worried. Jim was brilliant, yet had a reckless impulse. Didn’t sleep, forgot to eat, burned things just to see them fizzle out and turn black.

Finally, hearing a muffled click of the shampoo bottle, the younger twin got up. _Awake enough to carry out basic functions, awake enough for company._ He sheds his t-shirt and pajama pants as he walks over, tossing them into the laundry, always feeling exposed, even walking ten steps to the master bathroom.

He knocked at the ajar door, simply to warn his brother of his coming, not waiting for a response before walking in. The shower curtain was pulled back a body’s width, steam puffing out of it. Literally a warm welcome.

Richard steps in, Jim standing under the stream, head poking out as his arms lazily lathered up his hair. Again, the younger brother feels a tug, one reminding him of how much he preferred Jim like this. Cleansed. No masks. How they were supposed to be.

He mirrors his motions, dipping his head in to wet his tresses before squirting soap in his hand. Jim waits until Richard has caught up, and they begin again at the same point. They watch each other with the same dark brown eyes. 

As Richard’s hand rises, so does Jim’s. As Jim accidentally gets suds in his eye, so does Richard. They both scratch at the same spots. They embrace as they rinse, tilting their heads back. 

The water runs off them in the same trickles. They blink flecks of liquid out of their lashes. They kiss languidly, skin heated by the shower. 

Richard’s stomach drops as Jim’s palm runs down his stomach, stroking his cock, remnants of the soap still on his hand. Such an easy glide, so efficient of technique, Richard moaned into Jim’s mouth, gripping at his shoulders to keep from keeling over. Years of practice, their bodies so in sync, they were masters of the other’s. 

But one of the few areas where they differed is that Jim liked to draw it out. Liked when they were both whining messes by the end of it, desperately clinging at the end of their ropes together, over a chasm of pleasure, just _daring_ the other to fall first. 

Richard was more of a hedonist: if he had it his way (which he sometimes did), they’d both get off quickly, but multiple times. Quantity over quality, with lots of cuddling in between.

Jim let go, hands finding his brother’s hips and rotating him over. Richard’s hands found the rail, steadying and bracing himself, resting his cheek against the cool, tiled wall. The cascade of droplets was repositioned lower, hitting just below his knees.

Outside of his vision, Jim was retrieving the lubricant from the cabinet beside the shower. A telltale _pop_ of the cap told Richard to relax. He closed his eyes, and the pad of a finger began rubbing tantalizing circles around his hole. 

For whatever reason, when he focused on soothing himself, he thinks of their first time. Which is odd, if he had to ascribe any one emotion to that event, it was _nervous_. 

 

_It was a particularly bitter December. They’d turned sixteen in October, but things didn’t feel much different. Well, not for Richard, anyway._

 

A full digit wormed its way in, Richard breathed. 

 

_But it was clear something had in Jim. After school, Richard would be in drama class, and didn’t ask what Jim did in the meantime with his friends (he avoided going or being home alone)._

 

A second began to nudge at his entrance, but it hadn’t hurt in a while. Why was he still so apprehensive? It couldn’t really be about _morals_ , it was far too late for that.

 

 _They had walked home together, hand-in-hand in the slush, a light flurry caressing their faces. Before that day, holding each other was as far as they’d taken things. Richard wasn’t even certain there had been more than familial love, though he’d always felt_ strange _with Jim._

_Something entirely different than how he had loved their mother._

 

“Still okay, my love?” Jim’s lips were close to his ear, voice the epitome of comforting. He gives his hip a reassuring squeeze. He can still say no. 

Richard nods his head clumsily, cheeks beginning to flush with _want_ , “Yeah-huh.” 

 

_It was still daytime. Their father was absent. He’d do that sometimes, disappear for a week. Either spent all his at his job, or a pub, passed out in his room, or somewhere else, the brothers didn’t really care. It was a moment of respite._

_They’d holed up in Jim’s room, splayed out across his galaxy printed sheets. The stereo was playing Frank Sinatra._

 

“I love you.” Jim murmured, beginning to thrust in and out, scissoring his fingers slightly. 

“I love you, too.” Richard replies, glad most of his face was pressed into the wall, hiding that mixture of pain and pleasure, but also thankful he wouldn’t betray just how devastatingly touching it was whenever Jim would say that. He never said it to anyone else, even their parents. 

 

_Richard had been reading a school assignment — something by Edgar Allen Poe, but imperfect memory had robbed him of the exact title. That, and he never managed to make it to the end._

_Laying side-by-side, Jim rolled over, plastering his body flush over Richard’s. All of him. Their faces met, foreheads, lips. Their first kiss sent an electric current through them, beginning in Jim’s toes, transferred where they connected, crawling down Richard’s spine._

 

Jim kissed across Richard’s shoulder blades, a scratch of stubble teasing at his nerves. He shivered in response, the chill of not being covered in water a stark contrast to the heat pooling in his belly. His brother’s free hand kept an anchoring grip on his hip bone, keeping Richard tethered to the feelings, both pleasurable and uncomfortable. 

 

_“J-James, what was that?” Richard whispered, breathless as they came up for air._

_“A kiss. Obviously.” James grinned, his gaze like a keen hawk, looking for any sign of disgust._

_“I know, but… we’re brothers?” It came out more like a question than an opposition. Because Richard liked it, no use in denial for the sake of being socially acceptable when they were alone. But he’d always been told about — what was the phrasing? — “the dangers of incest.” Or perhaps it was “the sin of vanity.”_

_Because what could be more vain than being sexually attracted to yourself?_

 

A third finger had joined the others, and Richard felt very full. Good, in an abstract way, just knowing it was _Jim_ doing this to him, but the merciless tease was absolutely _refusing_ to touch his prostate or return his hand to his cock. 

Regardless of this intentional neglect, Richard was still impossibly hard, aching from what little friction he got as he was shoved against the barely-warmed tiles, “Please, Jim…” He finally pleaded, knowing that was what he wanted. 

 

_“We’re not ‘brothers.’” James protested._

_“We’re- we’re not?” Richard was very confused, taking his words at face value, head still spinning from the onset of passion._

_“We’re_ twins, _it means we share a soul.” He always had an eloquent tongue, “Shouldn’t we share a body as well?”_

 

Ah. Perhaps the most poignant line. One that will always stick out. Maybe that’s why Richard reflects on it often. 

“‘Please,’ what?” Jim cooed, but crooked his fingers in sympathy. Richard immediately sobbed, followed by the slow slide of the fingers out. 

“No- _Jim, please!_ ” He’d given up all attempts at being coy, the feeling of being left, gaping open, unfulfilled, even for a moment, was unbearable. 

 

_“We were one sperm, and one egg. Then, for thirty minutes, we were one cell… then we split into two. We should correct that mistake.” The words flowed from him so easily, like they were rehearsed. Except Jim always had that kind of casual air about him. Like everything was so effortless._

_Besides. What he said made a sort of sense. “Oh… I guess I never considered that part.” It wasn’t a hard sell. They were both sixteen, hormonal, developing, and only close with each other. General unreleased sexual energy filled in whatever gaps were left._

 

But Jim could be kind. Less than a second later, his stance widened to give him good balance, his cock was lined up, slick with a generous amount of lube, breaching into his twin. Richard let out a choked moan, toes curling at the smooth flooring. 

Jim was gasping behind him, giving them both a moment to settle before moving. A shudder ran through them. An echo of that first kiss, a physical reminder that they were one, fused to form a living circuit of blood and tissue. 

 

_It was the first time, so they weren’t quite sure of what to do. They kissed for a long time, rutting against each other fully clothed._

_Gradually, they lost their shirts, socks, trousers, pants, until they were bare. Something they hadn’t seen since they were kids and stopped bathing together. Despite essentially looking at what they already had, it was affecting._

 

It must’ve been a relatively busy morning, as (by Jim’s standards) it didn’t last long. The air was filled with sounds of hard breathing, only punctuated by desperate moans and Richard’s occasional beg of, “ _harder_.”

The hand at his hip curls around his cock, and begins jerking with purpose. 

 

_The end result was made much less ambiguous when Jim began working Richard into full hardness. Richard squirmed, gripping at the sheets. But not as hard as when Jim crawled down his body, burying his face between his legs._

 

Richard’s body tenses and tenses, until he’s nearly squeezed into a singularity. It all released at once, a breaking of a dam. He groans, eyes rolling to the back of his head as everything whites out.

Behind him, he can feel Jim’s body overlay with his, a small rush of liquid flooding him. Beautiful.

 

_He’d come embarrassingly quickly, screaming into James’ hand that’d clamped over his mouth._

_They rested a moment, letting Richard catch his breath. His brother lightly stroked his hair, which had become lightly mussed and curled with sweat, looking at him with adoring eyes. Richard hadn’t felt anywhere near as loved as he did in that moment._

_Moments later, Richard returned the favor._

 

Richard was brought back to reality by a shifting, by feeling empty. Jim had slid out of him, aiming the shower head at his lower back, the familiar rush of sticky being washed down the drain.

He shivered, turning around slowly on orgasm-weak legs, pressing chest-to-chest for support. Jim humored him a moment, tucking his chin over Richard’s shoulder, hugging him loosely, “I have to get out now.”

“Okay.” Richard nods, hearing, feeling as the water is shut off. The curtain is pulled back and a towel dabs at him lightly, then encircles him. Jim leaves shortly after, but Richard stays, not wanting to walk away from whatever feeling remained.

It is an intimacy that could be shared by very, very few.


End file.
